>london calling, heathrow 4am

>it stopped raining in toronto and the forecast for the rest of the week is sunny.

i arrive in london, and the saturated clouds start to drain.

can’t escape it, i guess.

i would like to say the flight was painless, and it was to a certain extent, but the delays, the technical problems, the turbulence, the icky aisle seat, the woman who fainted in the aisle in the middle of the night, the good-morning-muffin with 51 grams of carbs in it, and hot and muggy frizz ball that has accosted my worn body . . . i’m not grumpy, i’m sleep/food deprived.

the area i’m staying in, however, is lovely, even if the hostel isn’t.

i have to remind myself that the cars drive in the opposite direction, and i’m looking all the wrong ways. always with my head down the wrong avenue.

bobbies, and thick accents, and fair freckles, and plush tube seats, and double decker buses and the distinctly british architecture. it’s like they have different bricks here. different hands that build.

i’m too exhausted and walking-dead right now to wax philosophical about the abundance of history, culture, and western preeminence that i am saturated in right now. i’ll leave the soul-starved anecdotes for tomorrow. suffice it to say, i can’t wait for the rain-cessation, for a good night’s sleep, for some organic food from the shoppe around the corner, and for england to prove itself to me, as it has to the planet for a millenia.

i slipped and almost landed on my butt before in the rain-slicked streets. my hand touched the ground, but i saved my new shorts from any damage. my ego is another story. the brits bonging behind the large pub windows goofily stared at me. i gave them a dorky thumbs up as i passed. they laughed. i faked a laugh.

i’ve faked many things before, i never thought i’d have to fake a laugh.

i’m thinking about the impending portugal-france showdown today in the world cup. when the concierge at my hostel found out what ethnicity my last name was, he was none too amused. being portuguese in england right now isn’t the best of things.

we make posh n’ becks bawl.

the concierge, named johan (pronounced YAWN, ironically enough), took me by the hand and spread his scandanavian flirtatious devices on me with a butter knife. it worked.

now i remember why i decided to come back to europe.

it’s time to go eat and take a nap and remind myself amidst R.E.M.ing that i’m here on another adventure. this isn’t something to be taken lightly.

Christine Estima

Christine Estima

As a half-Portuguese, half-Lebanese, feminist, novelist, hipster, atheist, charlatan, blogger, backpacker, playwright, bookworm, film critic, bon vivant and lovertine, I began my journey of petulance and precociousness in the suburbs of Montreal and Toronto. I thusly figured I'd turn out to be a nun, or a writer. A few years at a Catholic school cured me of the first disease.

I cannot wear white without spilling something on it, but you'll still find me, most likely, in the fridge at 4am.

I mean well.

Want to know more about me? You can find my bio, writing portfolio, and media coverage at ChristineEstima.com